Silver Fist
by Nerdanel
Summary: A series of vignettes taking place during the life of Celebrimbor. Second one up: Anglachel is reforged and Celebrimbor speaks with Turin.
1. Author's Notes

Author's Note: This is the fist in a series of vignettes I hope to write about the life of Celebrimbor. The first one starts relatively late in his life, and may be moved around, depending on what I end up writing. Please read and review!  
  
Disclaimer: The characters, thing and places contained herein belong to the J.R.R Tolkien estate. I use for entertainment purposes only and make no profit from this.  
  
Summary: A series of vignettes about the life of Celebrimbor. 


	2. I will not follow my father'

"In that time Celebrimbor son of Curufin repudiated the deeds of his father, and remained in Nargothrond."  
  
-The Silmarillion, Of Beren and Lúthien  
  
"No." Celebrimbor was looking his father right in the eyes, his back straight and his feet planted. When Curufin still did not respond, he repeated himself. "No, lord, I am remaining here."  
  
The address of Lord from his own son bothered Curufin. He would have forced anyone else to give him that title, but coming from his own son, it was a blow to the heart. He was not sure whether he wanted to strike his son or embrace him, so he continued to keep his firm gaze upon him, attempting to intimidate him in his desperate search for words. But Celebrimbor would not be intimidated. He just returned his father's glare and would not give in. For once, Curufin regretted that his son had inherited his stubbornness. They might have stood thus for hours, both wills striving against the other, had not Celegorm come down the hall at that moment.  
  
"Are you not coming?" he said to his brother. Realization obviously hadn't hit him yet. Curufin reluctantly tore away his gaze from his son and turned to Celegorm. "Brother, I will be out when it seems good to me. If you will just leave me a moment, I would like to say something to my son, before he sets out with us." He shot Celebrimbor a warning glance and turned back to his brother, who still had not left. "I will be out shortly," he said, eyebrows raised in impatience. Celegorm took the cue, and departed.  
  
Curufin turned back to his son. He spoke slowly, trying not to lose patience, although it threatened to leave him at any moment. "Listen to me, onya." he said. "The decision is not yours to make as to whether or not you follow me into exile. You are my son, Tyelperinquar, and the son belongs with his father." Celebrimbor flinched at the sudden use of his old name, but he did not give in yet to his father's over-powering nature.  
  
"It may be that the son belongs with the father, but there is no law that says he must." Celebrimbor said. "And can the son not refuse to follow his father, if his father has become as distant to him and a king is to his lowest subject?" He raised his voice slightly. "And can the son not go on his own path if his father has done things in his life that have hurt his powerless son to watch? I will not make the same mistake you did, atar. I will not follow my father."  
  
Curufin's patience was completely lost now. There was only so much a son could say, and this, by far, was beyond what was acceptable. He wanted again to strike him, but that fatherly instinct that remained somewhere inside him prevented him from doing so. Instead he just gave him a cold stare that seemed to say without words that any love or even respect that had been between them was lost. Curufin knew that it was Celebrimbor himself who had made this decision. He would never forgive his son. As he left the room, he said to the wall "So be it. Now the son shall truly be as distant as the lowest subject." With that he left, and did not turn back even once.  
  
Though Celebrimbor felt indeed that he had accomplished what he had hoped to do, he was disappointed nonetheless. Curufin always had a way of making insults seem less potent, by re-directing them toward the speaker. But it was no matter. Celebrimbor was finally rid of him, that ruined elf he had so foolishly followed for so many years and called father.  
  
This unknown feeling of freedom and independence began to hit Celebrimbor finally. But it was not a pleasant feeling, as he had always imagined it would be. It was the feeling of being lost. He had grown so used to being told what to do, and to having people to follow, that now that he was finally rid of that he was even more caged. Only now he was caged within an open place, with so many places to run but no legs to carry him. Tears began to form in his eyes, but he hurriedly brushed them away. He could not let Curufin hurt him. He thought then the very same thoughts that had once passed Curufin's mind when he doubted for a brief moment his own actions: he would not turn back on a trail he had already taken. He would not take back his actions.  
  
Translations:  
  
onya = son atar = father Tyelperinquar = Silver Fist, Celebrimbor's name in Quenya 


	3. Agarwaen

The scent of warm metal drifted through the thick air of the forge. Celebrimbor sat alone, busying himself with the making of a small trinket, while several unfinished swords cooled beside him. He was looking at the creation at his hands with displeasure. It wasn't turning out to be anything like he had expected. He was considering laying it aside and continuing with something else, when he heard the creak of the large wooden door opening.  
  
"Who is there?" He asked, without lifting his eyes from the silver pendant, set with a green jewel, below him.  
  
"I have come from Lord Orodreth," the messenger in the doorway replied. "He apologizes if he is disrupting you, Lord Celebrimbor, but there is something he would like for you to attend to." It was so like Orodreth, Celebrimbor thought, always apologizing. He lifted his gaze from the pendant, knowing he would never finish it now, and turned to the messenger.  
  
"What is it?" He asked, and as he did, he noticed another behind him. He was a tall man, with dark eyes and hair, wearing the mark of the Lord Orodreth, but obviously not an Elf. Celebrimbor knew he must be the Edain who had returned with lord Gwindor, whom so many spoke of. The chatter had not interested Celebrimbor much, but now that he saw this mortal, he could see where their fascination lay. He was young, almost like one of the Eldar to look upon, yet more puzzling were his eyes, that seemed to hide some secret that perhaps he did not even know. There was sorrow written upon every feature of his face, and yet within his eyes Celebrimbor saw only pride. Interrupting his thoughts, this messenger replied:  
  
"He is Agarwaen, and mortal who traveled here with the lord Gwindor and has been welcomed by the King." Agarwaen, thought Celebrimbor, and he nearly shook his head. Any Elda could see that this wasn't the man's true name. He became more puzzling by the minute.  
  
"He wishes that this sword be reforged," the messenger continued, lifting in both hands several shards of black metal. "And the King wishes that you be set to the task, since you are the most skilled in this art in Nargothrond. Therefore, if it is little trouble to you, he would ask that you reforge it with as much skill as you can."  
  
Celebrimbor looked at the strange black shards. "What was this swords name?" he asked. "For surely, it was a great sword. Never before have I seen one of it's like."  
  
"Anglachel." The mortal spoke for the first time, softly yet not without pride. "There is only one other like to it." It seemed he did not want to speak much on the history of the sword, so Celebrimbor let the matter lie.  
  
"Very well," he said at last. "I will reforge this blade." The messenger came and lay the shards on the table, then walked from the room, closing the large door behind him. Agarwaen stayed behind, looking at Celebrimbor, then at the shards that lay on the table.  
  
Celebrimbor began to go on with his work, but the mortal remained standing there, staring at him. "What is it you want?" Celebrimbor asked at last, becoming a little impatient now.  
  
The mortal turned his gaze away, and paused awhile, perhaps searching for the appropriate words. "I should like to know that this blade will be treated with respect." He said at last. This annoyed Celebrimbor quite a bit, but he remained calm. This was what one had to do in the presence of mortals.  
  
"You need not doubt that the smith will treat all metals with reverence, Agarwaen." he replied. Then, seeing that this explanation was not enough, went on; "I see indeed that this sword holds some importance to you, and you may rest assured that no harm will come to it from me. It would comfort me, however, if I knew what sorrow it is that marks you and this sword." Perhaps the question wasn't the right thing to ask, but Celebrimbor could not help but wonder. He did not expect the reaction he received. Tears seemed to form in the mortal's eyes, and he blinked, forcing them to stay back.  
  
"I would rather not speak of these things," he said quietly. "Suffice it to say that it belonged to one whom I loved."  
  
Celebrimbor looked at him, confused. But the mortal quickly turned away and walked from the room, leaving Celebrimbor to unravel the mystery alone, accompanied by the fire and metal of his forge.  
  
Of the few mortals he had seen he had been able to comprehend none of them. They seemed to elude the Elven thought, and were always marked by some sorrow that could not be comprehended. Celebrimbor wondered at how one so young as this Agarwaen could carry already such a grief and weariness. He glanced over at the black shards that lay beside him and knew there was no small doom on this sword, and upon his bearer. And yet to one of the Eldar, old beyond the count of years, it was but a small matter: one that would pass with but a handful of years and then disappear into the folds of Time. With this thought in mind, Celebrimbor went on, making adjustments to small silver pendant in his hand. It would be many years before he saw the same sorrow as this mortal. Many long years.  
  
Author's Note: My apologies if this seems to focus more of Turin than Celebrimbor, I simply could not help it. I am not quite satisfied with this, as Celebrimbor seems almost too thoughtful for me. No matter, the next one I have planned should be better. I just couldn't leave Túrin out. Please R&R, and thank you so much to the people who already did! 


End file.
